A Beautiful Mind
by jankmusic
Summary: Amnesia is always romanticized in Hollywood, but there's nothing romantic about losing your memory after a traumatic brain injury. Sherlock Holmes can't remember much from the last decade, but he's willing to spend the rest of his life committing the people he once knew into his memory.
1. Playing a Game of Go!

A Beautiful Mind

Summary: Amnesia is always romanticized in Hollywood, but there's nothing romantic about losing your memory after a traumatic brain injury. Sherlock Holmes can't remember much from the last decade, but he's willing to spend the rest of his life committing the people he once knew into his memory.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

All Chapter Titles have been inspired by the film score from A Beautiful Mind.

Chapter One: Playing a Game of "Go"!

* * *

It really wasn't a surprise that it was raining in London, and yet Sherlock observed people running about as if they had never witnessed the phenomenon before. He sighed and opened his umbrella before finishing his short walk to New Scotland Yard, three cups of coffee in a small carrier.

He had been bored for three days.

John Watson took his small (but growing) family to visit his parents for a week, right at the height of a crime dry spell. After harassing Molly for body parts, Lestrade for cases and Mrs. Hudson in general, Lestrade finally snapped and said he could "shadow" him for the day if he brought coffee for himself and Sally Donovan.

Sherlock wasted no time in getting dressed that morning, stopping at Molly's flat to enthusiastically make her breakfast (eggs and toast) and escort her to work like he normally did if they didn't spend the night together. On his way from St. Bart's and to the Yard, he stopped and purchased three coffees; one for himself, Lestrade, and Sally Donovan, all made the way they preferred.

It was a small peace offering for his apparently abhorrent behavior over the last week.

At least that's what Molly told him to say if Lestrade and Donovan were surprised that he actually purchased quality coffee for them.

* * *

"Thanks for the coffee. I have some cold cases you can look through while I finish up this paperwork, and then we're going to drive up to a crime scene. Nothing fancy, just a robbery." Lestrade pushed Sherlock towards his desk chair. "Computer's all yours for the cold cases. Just don't do anything…_illegal_." He settled in a chair across from Sherlock and sipped at his coffee as he filled out paperwork.

With a sigh, Sherlock sat down and pulled the evidence box on the desk into his lap. This particular box held the evidence of a triple homicide from a few years earlier. There were six other boxes of evidence that Lestrade pulled out of the archives for Sherlock, which meant Sherlock would be busy for at least a few hours.

The two men worked silently for nearly two hours, the only interruption being from Sherlock, when he left his office to speak to Donovan about the case; it was one of the first ones she ever worked.

By the time he solved the triple homicide with limited evidence and research on the computer, Lestrade was ready to leave for the robbery case. As they were walking to Lestrade's car, he filled Sherlock in on the robbery and he was certain that if they had crime scene photos, Sherlock would have been able to solve the case without leaving his office.

Sherlock plopped into the passenger's seat of Lestrade's car and put on his seatbelt. He tossed his umbrella to the floor of the car, and then rested his head in his hands.

"Tired?"

"Bored."

"Of course. Well, after this, wanna get lunch? My treat, if you're on your best behavior."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not a child; you don't have to bribe me to behave."

"Oh, I beg to differ," Lestrade said, laughing. Sherlock just rolled his eyes again.

The two rode in the car in silence for a bit, Sherlock just staring out the window, trying to deduce London's citizens as they dashed about in the rain. The only reason Sherlock chose to speak after a while was when he got a text message from Donovan, who opted out of going to the crime scene with them, instead working on the mountains of paperwork on her desk. "Sally said you forgot your mobile on her desk. And Molly texted with results from the blood sample from yesterday."

"Great," Lestrade said. "Text Molly and tell her that we're going to swing by Bart's on our way back from the scene."

Sherlock quickly began sending texts, first to Sally and then he was composing his next text to Molly when Lestrade slammed on his brakes, causing Sherlock to drop his phone and strain against his seatbelt. "Bloody idiots! It's raining, not the end of the world!" He blared on his horn for a moment before taking a deep breath and driving again.

"Calm down, Geoff," Sherlock said, smirking and he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned down grab his phone from between his knees.

Lestrade glared at Sherlock for a moment before exhaling loudly and tightening his grip on the wheel; Sherlock was being annoying on purpose. "Well, more people die in accidents from idiot drivers than anything else! If every other bastard driving on the road weren't driving like idiots, I wouldn't be so angry, Sher—"

He didn't finish his sentence, because right at that moment, a car speeding behind them slammed into the back of Lestrade's car.

Sherlock didn't have on his seatbelt.

Lestrade watched horrified, as if in slow motion, as Sherlock was launched from his seat and went through the windshield.

And then Lestrade's airbags went off, and he lost consciousness.

* * *

A/N: The idea for this story is based off of the following prompt: Sherlock showing up every week with flowers and gifts for Molly and flirting shyly and it takes him a month to ask her out and Molly smiles and says yes because she remembers that it's their 3rd anniversary even if his brain doesn't let him remember. Thanks to holnnes and theheartofadetective on Tumblr for providing such a wonderful prompt! :)


	2. Saying Goodbye to Those You So Love

A Beautiful Mind

Summary: Amnesia is always romanticized in Hollywood, but there's nothing romantic about losing your memory after a traumatic brain injury. Sherlock Holmes can't remember much from the last decade, but he's willing to spend the rest of his life committing the people he once knew into his memory.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

All Chapter Titles have been inspired by the film score from A Beautiful Mind.

Chapter Two: Saying Goodbye to Those You So Love

* * *

_Beep, beep._

_Beep, beep._

_Beep, beep._

_Beep, beep._

_"His eyelids are fluttering! I think he's waking up sir!"_

_"Someone get Mr. Holmes from the hallway! Hurry!"_

_"Get ice! Someone call Doctor Hill!"_

_"Close the blinds! Dim the lights!"_

He heard all of these things floating through his mind hazily, but the most prominent sound was the beeping. He could hear it and feel it in his bones.

After a moment the commotion settled and then there was a woman talking to him. "Mr. Holmes? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

He fought to open his eyes and was surprised by how heavy and crusty his eyelids felt. It took a few minutes, but he managed to open his eyes a bit. He blinked a few times before his gaze focused on the dark skinned woman standing over him. She had a stethoscope and was listening to his chest.

"It's great to see you awake, Sherlock," she said, pulling away from him. "I'm Doctor Hill, and I've been looking over you since the accident."

His brow furrowed and he turned his head slowly. He saw his brother sitting in a chair beside him, an impassive look on his face. He jumped when another woman, this one infinitely younger than the doctor, appeared in his vision with a warm flannel. She gently began wiping around his eyes, and soon he was able to open and close them with ease. He turned back to the doctor after the other woman left; he assumed she was a nurse of some kind. The doctor was examining the machinery around him, as if she was giving him time to wake up.

"Mickey?" he croaked, his lips and throat impossibly dry. He saw his brother jerk to the edge of his seat. "Mickey, why is she calling me Sherlock? M'name's William."

"Oh dear…" Mycroft breathed, before getting the attention of the doctor. "Doctor Hill, it seems we have a serious problem. Sherlock hasn't called me Mickey and he hasn't gone by William in almost twenty years."

The doctor immediately returned to Sherlock's side. "What is your name?"

"William Holmes," he said slowly, wincing as his head ached. He tried sitting up, but his brother put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Do you know why were you brought here?"

He looked around the room. It was immaculate and smelled strongly of disinfectant. It resembled a government facility that he vaguely remembered, and his heart rate increased. The incessant beeping that he heard when he first woke up sped up too, and he realized that it was his heart. Then he looked at his brother, who truly looked worried, and he felt sick to his stomach. "Drugs," he said, glancing at the doctor before sitting up suddenly, leaning towards Mycroft. "I'm so sorry, Mickey! I'm so sorry!"

He was hyperventilating and clutching Mycroft to him tightly, babbling about how he thought he could quit using without the help of rehab, and he ignored his brother as he tried to speak over him. Eventually, the nurse had to come in and administer a sedative in order to calm him down.

As he was drifting asleep, he heard Mycroft and the doctor discuss neurologists, testing, and a MRI. He had no idea why he needed any of that done; he overdosed on drugs not something worse. The last thing he thought of before he fell asleep was his irritation over his confusion; nothing was making sense.

* * *

For the next three days, Sherlock was surrounded by a team of doctors, undergoing numerous tests, scans, and physicals. In that time, he learned that he was in a severe car accident eleven days prior to the day he woke up, and had memory loss due to a traumatic brain injury. It was determined after all the testing that he lost roughly the last ten years of his life, possibly a bit more. It was a hard concept for him to understand because he didn't feel like he was forgetting anything, but after looking in the mirror and seeing the cuts, scrapes, and bruises on his face and chest, there was no other way to explain his injuries.

And as Spock once said, "Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true."

On the third day after he woke up, two whole weeks after his accident, Sherlock was officially diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Amnesia and Retrograde Amnesia, and it would be up to chance whether or not he would regain his memories. Sherlock tried to remember all the little details about his traumatic brain injury, like what parts of his brain received the most damage and whether or not he would ever recover, but he kept forgetting and he noticed that some of his nursing staff was tired of explaining to him what was wrong with his mind, so he dropped it. He remembered that he was having severe memory problems, and that's all that mattered.

His parents came to visit soon after that, and Sherlock was startled to see how much older they looked. He had to keep reminding himself that what he remembered and real time were not currently the same. It was also the reason why Mycroft looked thinner than the last time he could remember.

As he was talking to his mother and generally basking in her presence, he heard Mycroft talking to his father about how his personality was different.

"I'm not _different_," Sherlock said, eyeing his brother and father. His father immediately reached over and took Sherlock's hand, giving it a squeeze. Tears of frustration filled Sherlock's eyes, but he didn't let go of his hand. Taunting from his childhood and young adulthood resounded in his head; peers were some of the worst bullies, teasing him and pushing him around because he was _different_.

"You're not different," his father said, his voice warbling a bit. It obviously wasn't the first time his father had to tell him that. "You were just like this when you were a boy, when you still went by William."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, trying to sort through his thoughts and memories that were jumbled together. His Mind Palace was in complete disarray, crumbling from the sheer force of his thinking and his exhaustion. One of the psychologists he met had advised him to hold off on rebuilding his Mind Palace until his headaches went away or else he could make himself sick with pain.

Finally Sherlock looked at his father. "And I go by Sherlock now?" He meant for it to be a statement but it sounded like a question.

"Yes you do, love," his mother answered.

"And I grew up to be a what? A _bastard_?" He knew that one of his most "recent" memories included him, drugs, and a lot of screaming and shouting; he didn't know the context or whom he was shouting at but he knew he wasn't a good man.

His parents rushed to say he wasn't that kind of person, but Sherlock caught the look of guilt on his brother's face. Evidently, he grew up to be some kind of tyrant.

"I'm confused," Sherlock said, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. "I don't remember anything from the last ten years, and what I _do_ remember is all mixed up and not organized, but evidently I've regressed to my ten year old self? Why? I don't understand why this is happening, and my brain hurts!"

Soon he was enveloped in his mother's arms, and he felt his father's hands on his back, rubbing soothingly. "Just take some time, Sherlock," his mother said soothingly. "Before you know it, you'll get your memories back and you'll be right as rain."

No one chose to mention that the longer it took for Sherlock to regain his memories, the grimmer his recovery would be.

* * *

Staying in the hospital was taxing on Sherlock, mostly because he had the tendency to get lost every single time he left his room. What he thought was the bathroom was often the main door to the corridor, and he frequently found himself wandering around, smiling at other patients in the halls, greeting whoever he ran into, and otherwise being friendly. He would only wander around for a few minutes at a time, before a nurse or doctor would see him and encourage him to go back to his room. Sherlock always did so willingly with a smile on his face.

The first and only time Sherlock managed to escape from the hospital, he was found in a garden only a few kilometers away, sitting on a large rock, confused as to why he was in a hospital gown and why he couldn't remember where he got the painful bruises, scrapes, and cuts that littered his body.

After that, Sherlock had around the clock supervision. More often than not, Mycroft would sit in his room and work quietly on paperwork, use his laptop, or read the paper while Sherlock quietly recovered from his injuries. On the weekends, his parents would visit, and if Sherlock didn't have any visitors, a nurse would come in at fifteen minute intervals to check on him.

Three weeks after waking up in the hospital and with most of his physical injuries healed, Sherlock's team of doctors decided that it was time for him to recover at home. Sherlock's memories were solidifying; he now remembered everything up to ten years ago, with only minimal confusion and haziness. The doctors believed that the memories stopped right around the time Sherlock became sober. Any time after that, Sherlock couldn't remember, and if he thought about it too hard, his headaches would intensify.

* * *

"I think it would be in your best interest if you stayed with your brother when you return to London, rather than staying alone in your flat. You're still getting debilitating headaches, you sometimes don't remember unfamiliar faces, and London isn't the same as you last saw it. Of course, as your doctor, these are only suggestions. I cannot force you to do something you don't want to do."

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, dressed for the first time in clothing other than his hospital gown in nearly three weeks. Mycroft had packed a bag with his toiletries, pants, jeans, and a comfortable jumper; all clothing he frequently wore over a decade ago when he was still in University.

Sherlock nodded his head. "That's fine. I think I get along with him for the most part." He smiled as brightly as he could and slowly moved off his bed. His body was still a bit sore from the accident, but his injuries were healing and fading. "Thank you, Doctor Hill, for watching over me."

"Not a problem, Sherlock. Remember to make those appointments. It's all in your release paperwork." Sherlock glanced down at the paperwork clutched tightly in his hand. He had a list of doctors who he needed to call when he arrived at Mycroft's home to make appointments with.

"Good luck, Sherlock!" The doctor called, as he stepped out of his hospital room. He turned and waved at her before walking down the corridor and towards the lifts, where he could see Mycroft and a young woman standing and waiting.

The woman was using her mobile phone, but she held her hand out to Sherlock. Thinking that she wanted to shake hands, he put his bag down at his feet and grasped her hand firmly. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. I can't remember if we've met before." He smiled at her, and she looked up from her phone in obvious surprise.

"I'm Anthea." She shook his hand just as firmly. Sherlock let go of her hand and picked up his bag.

"Are you his wife?" he tilted his head towards his brother who was now standing in the lift, his hand keeping the door open. Mycroft hadn't mentioned having a wife, nor did he have a ring on his finger, but a lot of the focus had been on his recovery. He didn't blame himself for missing something like his brother being married.

"No," Anthea said with a chuckle, glancing at the scowling elder Holmes.

"His girlfriend, then?"

"Not that either." She took pity on Sherlock, because he was looking more and more confused. "I'm his personal assistant, and I can take your bag."

"I can carry it," Sherlock said, finally stepping into the lift. He looked at Mycroft and said, "A personal assistant, Mycroft? Really?" But the bright smile on his face cancelled out the sarcasm in his voice. Anthea and Mycroft exchanged worrying glances; Mycroft hadn't seen this playful side of Sherlock in a very long time, and it was going to take some time to get used to.

* * *

A/N: Chapter two, at your service! :) Thank you for reading!


	3. Cracking the Russian Codes

A Beautiful Mind

Summary: Amnesia is always romanticized in Hollywood, but there's nothing romantic about losing your memory after a traumatic brain injury. Sherlock Holmes can't remember much from the last decade, but he's willing to spend the rest of his life committing the people he once knew into his memory.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

All Chapter Titles have been inspired by the film score from A Beautiful Mind.

Chapter Three: Cracking the Russian Codes

* * *

Sherlock arrived at Mycroft's home a little after noon, and Mycroft insisted that Sherlock eat before going through his release paperwork from the hospital and making all the necessary appointments.

He and Mycroft ate cheese sandwiches, crisps, and water in companionable silence, before the two of them set to work on the paperwork.

After spending the rest of the day making appointments, Sherlock found himself curled up on the sofa in Mycroft's office, wishing away the pain that he'd been plagued with since he woke up. The doctors told him the headaches would go away with time, but because of his previous addictions, he personally chose to forgo any and all pain medications. Even though it had been three years since his last relapse, in Sherlock's mind it was only weeks ago, and he didn't want to risk relapsing again.

"Mycroft?" he asked, fiddling with a loose string on his jumper.

"Hmm?"

"Have I made friends?" he asked shyly, refusing to look up from his hands. "From what I remember when I was in Uni, I didn't make…many."

"You have a small group of fiercely loyal friends, Sherlock. They've been very worried about you, actually."

"Should I visit them? Do you think I'll remember them?" He looked up at Mycroft then, hopeful. He never had friends growing up, and the idea that he had some, if not many as an adult flooded him with warmth.

Mycroft sighed warily and rubbed his temples, and Sherlock's brow furrowed. "If you can't recall their names now, I'm not certain you'll be able to recall them later, but seeing other people and being in their company will be good for you. I can't be here all the time. I will be returning to work the day after tomorrow."

"Right." Sherlock sat up slowly, cradling his head in his hands. The excitement of getting out of the hospital and making so many appointments exhausted him and made his head throb. He almost felt sick to his stomach as he said, weakly, "Tomorrow, we'll visit my friends. You can tell me all about them."

Sherlock heard Mycroft stand up from his desk and he soon felt the weight of his hand on his shoulder. "Your head?" he asked.

"It's terrible," he admitted softly. Not wanting to worry his brother any longer, he made the decision to retire to his bedroom. "I'm going to bed." He stood up on wobbly feet, Mycroft immediately wrapping his hand around his upper arm. For a moment, Sherlock was motionless as he waited for his vertigo to dissipate, and then he took a hesitant step forward, Mycroft still keeping a firm grip on his arm. He faltered at the door, looking up and down the hallway "I don't remember where my room is." Was he supposed to feel this…_shame_ for not remembering something that Mycroft had told him only a few hours ago? The doctors warned him that he might forget things, but repetition should help him remember.

"I'll show you. Come along."

And with that, Mycroft showed his younger brother the bathroom and his bedroom.

When Sherlock was alone once again, he crawled into bed, carefully pulling the duvet to his chin and rolling to his side. He felt completely out of sorts, his brain hurt, and he desperately wished that things could go back to how they used to be, whatever that was.

Tears filled his eyes for what seemed like the millionth time since he woke up. He scrubbed at his face warily; he knew that crying was uncharacteristic for him but he was frequently overwhelmed by his emotions as of late, and his new therapist warned him that it might be like this until his brain healed.

Sherlock fell asleep with tears still pouring from his eyes and his thoughts a jumbled mess.

* * *

When Sherlock woke the next morning, he panicked, not remembering where he was. He jumped out of the unfamiliar bed, looking around the room. It was plain, with oak furniture, doors, and floors. The bed was small and in a corner, and there was nothing personal of his that hung up on the walls. His thoughts were fuzzy, and he thought he was either high or coming down from a high, and it worried him that he couldn't tell the difference. He ran his hands through his hair, wincing at the pain in his head. Then he made a mad dash to the door and threw it open, looking up and down the hallway.

Nothing looked familiar.

He was about to go on a search when he saw his brother appear from what could only be a bedroom, blue silk pajamas barely visible with a robe tied tightly at his waist. He looked like he had been awake for a while and was expecting him that morning.

"Good morning, brother. Did you sleep well?"

Suddenly, his mind began to clear, and he was remembering things. He was staying with his brother because he was in an accident and was deemed too unstable to live on his own just yet. He felt a blush on his cheeks and he looked down at his toes as they tapped against the cool wooden floors. "Morning, Mycroft."

"Breakfast will be done soon. Why don't you shower and get ready? You have a busy day ahead of you."

"I do?" He looked at his brother slowly.

"Yes. We're meeting John Watson and his family this morning. I'll tell you more about them over breakfast."

"I'm meeting my friends today…" Sherlock said, rocking back on his feet. "Right. I'll just…get ready then." Sherlock turned around slowly and went back into his bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. He leaned against the solid wood and gingerly began sorting through his thoughts until he felt his headache return full force. Then he pushed away from the door and went to the wardrobe and began searching through his clothes.

Once Sherlock found his way into the bathroom and showered, he went downstairs and followed the smell of frying bacon. His brother was sitting at a small table in the kitchen, sipping at his coffee. Sherlock sat down across from him and after a moment began assembling a plate with eggs, bacon, and toast.

He ate quietly as Mycroft shuffled through the morning paper, and he didn't get around to asking about his friends before Mycroft's phone rang and he announced that the car was there to take them on their trip.

"I have a best friend?" Sherlock asked incredulously, staring at Mycroft with wide eyes. "I've never…"

"Yes. John Watson is your best friend," Mycroft said, unable to hold back the small smile that graced his features before he schooled his expression; the look of wonder on his brother's face was a direct comparison to his ten year old self. It was refreshing. "You were flatmates and then…well, you left for a bit and came back. Now he's married and has one daughter and another child on the way."

"What's his wife's name?"

"Mary."

"And the daughter?"

"She's actually your Goddaughter." Mycroft had to cough into his hand to hide his snort of laughter at Sherlock's once again flabbergasted expression. "Her name is Scarlett. She's three."

"This John and Mary trust me enough to be the Godfather to their child? I'm a drug addict and I have never held down a job in my life!"

Mycroft leaned across his seat. "Sherlock, you have been sober for almost ten and a half years. You're a Consulting Detective and have been living well for six years. I know I've told you this several times, and because of your head injury, you're not remembering well, but you must believe me when I say that you are not the terrible person you think you are. You have grown to be an exceptional young man."

Sherlock rubbed his face tiredly. "I need to write things down. It might help."

"I'll have Anthea pick up a notebook that you can keep in your pocket."

Sherlock nodded his head and rested it against the window. "Who are my other friends again?"

"There is Gregory Lestrade. He was in the car accident with you. Remember Mummy told you about it?" He paused for a moment, watching as Sherlock tried to recall the information; a lot of the things that he was told right after waking up was forgotten; Sherlock had to be told numerous times that he was in a car accident and not overdosed on drugs. Eventually, Sherlock nodded his head. "He is a Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard. You are colleagues and friends. There's Mrs. Hudson, and she's your landlady at two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street. If you are feeling well enough in a few weeks and if your doctors agree that it's safe, you'll be returning there. And then there's Molly Hooper. She's your…girlfriend."

Sherlock snorted, shaking his head. "Don't take the piss out of me, Mycroft. I've never had a girlfriend." He couldn't remember if he and Mycroft joked prior to his accident, but this seemed an odd time to start teasing each other again.

"Why would I lie, Sherlock?"

"You used to tease me all the time?" Mycroft was quiet, and Sherlock sighed. "Anyone else?"

Mycroft hesitated a moment before sighing. "Just acquaintances you've worked with. You'll meet them if you return to work."

The rest of the ride to Sherlock's best friend's home was made in silence. When the car pulled to a stop, Mycroft got out, and Sherlock shuffled after him, feeling a little hesitant and embarrassed. What was he supposed to do when he greeted the man who he was supposed to be well acquainted with?

"Come along," Mycroft said, pausing at the door. He waited for Sherlock to catch up with him before he knocked.

The door opened as if John Watson had been waiting there. "Mycroft," he said in greeting, opening the door wider.

"John. Remember what I told you on the phone," he murmured, before stepping inside. Sherlock looked up hesitantly, and then followed Mycroft inside.

The door closed softly behind them, and Sherlock looked up from scrutinizing his shoes and at the man still standing with his back to the door. He had graying blond hair, tan skin, and was remarkably shorter than him.

Without really thinking, Sherlock held out his hand and smiled hesitatingly. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

The rapid blinking and choked breathing from John Watson alarmed Sherlock and he looked wildly at Mycroft, afraid he did something wrong. _This isn't how old friends greet each other!_ He couldn't help but scold himself.

"Sorry," John croaked after a moment. His voice sounded a bit hoarse. Sherlock slowly returned his gaze to John, apprehension and fear shining brightly in his eyes. His hand was still out, and John took it, giving him a firm handshake. "I wasn't ready—anyway, I'm John Watson. If you want, we can move to the sitting room. It's a bit more comfortable than this hallway."

Sherlock made to follow John, but he realized Mycroft wasn't coming with him. "Aren't you…?" he asked, his voice wavering just slightly. He wasn't sure if he could do this alone. He was already feeling ill in the presence of this man who was supposed to be his best friend, he couldn't fathom doing the rest of this "meet and greet" without his brother.

"You'll be fine," Mycroft said, pushing him forward. "You trust this man with your life, Sherlock."

"Do I?" he squeaked, "Because I don't remember him!"

At the stern look his brother gave him, Sherlock sighed and slumped forward a bit, finally following John Watson into his sitting room.

Upon crossing the threshold, Sherlock was expecting to sit down on a sofa or chair and suffer through awkward small talk; the idea filled him with anxiety. Instead, he was met with a small child running at him and wrapping their arms around his legs.

"Sherlock!" she shouted, and the volume of her voice made his head explode with pain. He wobbled on his feet and latched onto the doorframe behind him. With his free hand, he cradled his head. He kept his eyes squeezed shut as nausea filled him and his brain literally pounded against his skull.

"Scarlett!" John scolded, rushing forward and scooping the small child up from the floor. "What did Mummy and I tell you?" And then rushing into the room, squeezing passed Sherlock, was a woman with short blond hair, a rounded belly, and an apron over jeans and a plain white t-shirt.

"I'll take her!"

And just like that, she was gone again.

"Come on, have a seat. I've got you."

Sherlock couldn't open his eyes, but with the guidance of a hand on his arm, he was led to a chair and pushed into it. "Sorry about that. Scarlett is rather attached to you and has missed you a lot."

"Scarlett?" he croaked, rubbing at his temples.

"My daughter. She's three years old. You're her Godfather. I'm not sure how much Mycroft has told you, actually."

Sherlock sat in silence for several long minutes until he felt he could open his eyes. When he did, he tried to smile at John who was kneeling in front of him. "It's alright. How long has it been since I've seen you and your family?"

"About a month. We were on a short holiday when you got into your accident. The government facility that Mycroft took you to wouldn't allow non-familial visitors anyway." Sherlock watched as John sat back on his heels. "Do you need something for your head?"

"Uhhh…no thank you." John's eyes widened a bit after Sherlock spoke, and in turn, Sherlock's eyes widened. Did he say something wrong? John could evidently sense the worry, because he smiled just slightly.

"You normally aren't so polite."

"I've been told that the injury has changed me…somewhat. I remember how I behaved before, but I can't make myself act that way." Sherlock curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his stomach. He hated knowing that he was _different_.

"It's all fine," John said firmly, giving his knee a squeeze. He stood to his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Tea?" he asked. "Mary filled the kettle right before you got here."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment and then he looked up at John. Tea sounded…wonderful. "Mary is your…wife?"

"Yes."

"Do we get along?" he couldn't help but ask. She had made such a quick and quiet appearance without saying hello that Sherlock was given the impression that he was probably cruel to her at some point and they didn't speak. He was surprised when John's mouth quirked up into a grin.

"You get along fine. You two are as thick as thieves, actually. Always getting into trouble."

"Really?" John nodded his head, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile. It seemed he had two best friends instead of just the one. "I would like to meet her…err…re-meet her. Please."

He stood up slowly from his seat, and followed his shorter friend through the sitting room and to the kitchen.

* * *

A/N: This chapter was well on it's way to 6,000+ words, so I had to cut it in half! The next part should be up soon! It's about halfway done or so… Thank you for reading!


	4. Scent Memory

A Beautiful Mind

Summary: Amnesia is always romanticized in Hollywood, but there's nothing romantic about losing your memory after a traumatic brain injury. Sherlock Holmes can't remember much from the last decade, but he's willing to spend the rest of his life committing the people he once knew into his memory.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

All Chapter Titles have been inspired by the film score from A Beautiful Mind.

Chapter Four: Scent Memory

* * *

Sherlock stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as John walked towards his wife. Their three year old daughter was sitting in a high chair eating cut up apple slices and Sherlock smiled at her, lifting his hand and waving. She grinned brightly at him and waved back.

Sherlock looked away from the little girl when he heard a sniffle. He stared wide eyed at…_Mary_?...Mary, who was staring at him with wide, watery eyes. She closed the distance between them and cupped his cheeks in her hands. "I never cry," she choked out, hastily wiping at her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Sherlock whispered, his hands hanging limply at his sides.

"Can I just? Can I?" Mary said, before wrapping her arms around him tightly. Sherlock very slowly reciprocated the hug. "It's alright, it's fine," she murmured. "You'll remember someday. I'm just happy you're alive." She pulled away from him eventually and wiped at her eyes. "We can't keep almost losing you, Sherlock Holmes!" She patted his chest over the scar that he couldn't get his brother to explain.

Sherlock's eyes widened even more, if that was possible. "I've almost died before?" he asked.

Mary squeaked and looked at John. John stepped forward, a slight grin on his face. He grabbed Mary's hand and gave it a squeeze. "You actually made a habit of it."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Maybe after tea we can show you the blogs."

"Blogs?"

* * *

They never got around to looking at the "blogs", but frankly, Sherlock forgot that John had even mentioned them. He found himself enjoying the presence of his friends, especially the three year old little girl who was curled up beside him, fast asleep.

After a light lunch, there was a knock at the front door, and Mary went to answer it.

Sherlock heard his brother and Mary greet each other, and he looked up and smiled at him. "Afternoon, Mycroft."

"Did you have an enjoyable visit?"

"I did." Sherlock glanced at John and smiled at him before returning his gaze to Mycroft; he didn't _see_ John's tight smile and sad eyes. "Is it time to leave already?"

"If you would rather stay here for the day, and if they are amenable…?" Mycroft looked from Mary to John, as if he knew of the emotional duress Sherlock's visit had put on them.

"I thought…maybe if it was alright…I could maybe meet my other friends, please?" Sherlock turned to John when he heard him take a shuddering breath. Sherlock bit his bottom lip, finally noticing how sad his friend looked. He stood to his feet suddenly, feeling a bit dizzy and wobbling on his feet. "I apologize. I should have realized that my visit was disrupting your daily routine. I'll just go home, and maybe we can meet again?"

"I told you it's all fine," John said, standing up and putting a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder, directing him back to his seat. "I'll make a few calls, and I'll take you to see everyone else."

He dug his phone out of his pocket and stepped out of the room. After a moment, Mycroft followed him, leaving Sherlock, Mary, and Scarlett in the sitting room.

Mary suddenly reached over and took Sherlock's hand, giving it a squeeze. "Don't feel like your disrupting our lives; we've missed you desperately, and we love spending time with you."

Sherlock stared at their joined hands for a moment, feeling overwhelmed with emotion. _This is what having friends' makes you feel?_ "Thank you," he whispered, "I really…just thank you."

* * *

Sherlock had to sit on his hands as he rode in a cab to Scotland Yard with John in order to stop fidgeting. He knew that he was going to visit his friend who he was in the accident with, and that made him nervous. He couldn't remember the context of the accident, whether or not it was his fault that the accident occurred in the first place, but he knew that he had been told all about it at the hospital.

"We're here," John said, breaking through Sherlock's thoughts. Sherlock blinked a few times and then started to get out of the cab.

"I don't have any money," he said suddenly, halfway out of the vehicle.

"Don't worry about it," John said, pulling out his wallet. "Your brother was kind enough to give us money for traveling and dinner."

"Okay."

Sherlock followed John through Scotland Yard. He shoved his hands in his pockets and kept his gaze lowered. "Do I really get along with all these officers? I remember getting arrested and being belligerent towards anyone in a uniform."

John cleared his throat. "I wouldn't say you get along with all of them; but you do have a mutual respect for each other…for the most part…I guess. Let's just say, compared to four or five years ago, you get along with everyone just fine."

"Hmm…" Sherlock hummed.

They continued their journey in silence until they stepped into a room full of desks. Sherlock saw people looking at him, pointing, and whispering. He flinched and clasped his hands tightly in front of him, trying to ignore everyone around him. He finally looked up when he saw a man standing in a doorway; he was older with gray hair. He had on a suit, but he was forgoing a jacket and had his left arm in a sling. Fading bruises covered his face, and Sherlock saw a few cuts visible on his arms and face.

Sherlock stared hard at his face; he was vaguely familiar. It was as if he had seen this man before, a long time ago, but he couldn't remember his name…which was expected of him, since he did have amnesia.

"My office," he called across the room, and John picked up the pace, leading Sherlock into the spacious office. When they stepped inside, John hesitated in the doorway for just a moment, and then he pointed his thumb over his shoulder.

"I saw Sally. I'll just talk to her for a mo'." The moment John spoke, Sherlock was flooded with another wave of anxiety. He couldn't bring himself to ask John to stay, he only smiled at him weakly and then turned to the man who he only vaguely recognized.

"You don't know me," the man said, softly, "But I'm going to hug you."

For the second time that day, Sherlock Holmes was being held in an embrace. He took a deep steadying breath and was nearly bowled over with the mixture of soap, washing powder, and cologne that this man was wearing. He found himself scrabbling to hold on, his hands fisting the back of his shirt as he suddenly remembered why this man was vaguely familiar.

He had been sick—very sick, vomiting, fever, chills, and he wasn't certain, but he thought this might have been him going through withdrawals for the final time. This man had been there with him, wiping his brow and keeping him comfortable and hydrated.

He just couldn't remember his name.

"Alright?"

"No, no, no…" Sherlock groaned, pressing his forehead against his shoulder. He felt sick and it was as if the memory trigged his headache to worsen. "Need to sit."

"Right, right." And the man began shuffling them to the closest seat, which happened to be a worn black sofa against the wall. Carefully, he manhandled Sherlock until he was sitting, his head thrust between his knees. "Do I need to get John?"

"Who?" he asked weakly.

"John Watson. Your friend who came here with you? Short, blond hair, walks funny."

"Umm…no. I'm alright. Just give me a minute." Sherlock stayed motionless until his stomach stopped roiling. Then he sat up slowly and tried to smile at the older man hovering over him, but he couldn't quite manage it. "I remember you…"

"You do?" His eyebrows shot high upward.

"Yes," Sherlock said, pausing for a moment. He rubbed his temples and rested his head in his hands. "You were with me when I stopped using?"

"I wasn't the only one. I don't think you've met her yet, Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock had to think if he met Molly Hooper. The only woman he met since his return to London was John's wife…and her name was Mary, not Molly. "No." He was embarrassed and ruffled his hair with his free hand; he couldn't remember anyone and he was tired of feeling ashamed for not remembering the names of the important people in his life. "But I don't remember your name, sorry." Sherlock's eyes widened when the man let out a bark of laughter. He looked up slowly. "That's funny to you, that I don't remember?" he asked defensively.

"No," the man said, sobering up. He moved to sit down beside Sherlock on the sofa. "Not at all. It's just, you've always struggled remembering my name. Always. I'm Greg Lestrade. I'm a Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard. This is my office."

"And I was in the accident with you, obviously." Sherlock held his hand out for him to shake. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, but you already knew that."

"You were. And I'm so sorry. I should have realized that you weren't wearing your seatbelt. If I would have waited for you to grab your phone and put your belt back on, you wouldn't be in this mess." He was suddenly gripping Sherlock's hand tightly in his own. "I am so sorry, Sherlock. This is all my fault."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Weren't we hit from behind?"

"Yeah. Car was speeding in the rain and didn't see us."

"It was an accident," Sherlock said.

"I know! It's just…that brother of yours," he said, letting go of Sherlock's hand and staring straight ahead. "He did a real shite job at keeping us informed, you know? We weren't allowed to visit you in the hospital, we weren't told what injuries you sustained! Hell, I didn't even know you were home until John called me a bit ago. I'm still trying to understand your injuries!"

"You and me both!" Sherlock said. After a moment of silence, Sherlock shifted and looked at Greg. "I'm sorry about Mycroft. And are you alright?" His eyes flitted over his sling and the fading bruises.

"Yeah. I'll be out of this in a week or two. Nothing serious. And I really am sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded his head once. "I'm sorry I don't remember much. My doctors said that I've lost the last ten years of my memory. They think it stops around the time I got sober, and if I knew you then, it's why I sort of recognize you now. It was the smell of your soap and washing powder that made me remember."

"Well, that's good then. It means Molly and Mrs. Hudson should be familiar enough for you. You met Molly and I at about the same time, and you've known Mrs. Hudson since your late teens." Lestrade patted Sherlock on the knee. "All you have to do is sniff around some, and you'll get a few more memories!" Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle, finally relaxing and sinking into the sofa that they were sitting on.

* * *

Visiting with Lestrade had been very insightful, if not overwhelming for Sherlock. He learned about the kind of work he and John did before his accident. He also learned that the last few years were not very pleasant, case-wise, because of blokes named Moriarty and Magnussen. Sherlock tried to inquire more about the two men, but before Greg could tell him what happened, John interrupted him and said that Mycroft suggested that he not learn those details until his headaches went away, just as a precaution.

Sherlock wanted to be annoyed that he was being kept in the dark, but he figured that most everything around him was dark, and he just had to wait until it was appropriate for him to know.

It didn't make it any less annoying though.

With the help of John, Sherlock was able to explain to the best of his ability his head injury. Sherlock wasn't sure if Mycroft informed John of the details of his memory problems or if John was a good doctor and knew about brain injuries and helped Sherlock out when his memory failed him. Sherlock made a mental note to ask John what kind of doctor he was, and he hoped that he would remember to ask.

As they were leaving to return to John's flat, Greg went to his desk and rummaged around in a drawer. "Do you think you could use this?" he asked, showing Sherlock a black spiral bound notebook. It was too big to fit in his jeans pocket. "I've got a pen too. When you get your big coat back, it'll fit quite nicely in the pockets."

"That would be very helpful, Greg," Sherlock said, smiling brightly and taking the notebook. It didn't go unnoticed when Greg and John exchanged sad glances, but Sherlock chose not to comment; he was certain he made some kind of social faux pas, but if it was serious enough, John would pull him aside and tell him about it, or at least he hoped he would.

Sherlock flicked through the blank pages for a moment before looking up at his friend. "It was nice meeting you…again. Umm…maybe we can meet again at a pub or something?" He turned to John suddenly, concern on his face. "Is that something I normally do? Go to pubs? I never did it in Uni…"

"You hate going to the pub," John said, he lips curling up slightly.

"But we can give it a go; see if you've changed your opinion. If not, takeaway at mine will suffice."

"Right. Okay." Sherlock smiled and took a step backwards towards the door. "I'll see you later."

* * *

Instead of returning to Mycroft's for the evening, Sherlock followed John back to his home, where Mary and Scarlett were waiting for them with takeaway. Sherlock politely declined food and sat down in the sitting room on a chair. He pulled his feet onto the seat and rested his new notebook on his knees. He toyed with the pen for a few moments before he uncapped it and opened the notebook.

_People I Know:_

He hesitated for a moment, and then he began writing what he could remember.

_John Watson: short, blond, walks funny. Doctor and former military man. Best friend.  
Mary Watson: also short, blond, and married to John.  
Scarlett Watson: three year old toddler. Daughter of John and Mary. My Goddaughter!  
Greg Lestrade: gray hair, tan, white teeth. Colleague. Detective Inspector. Friend. In car accident with me. Father figure? Helped me during withdrawals from drugs._

When he finished his very short list, he turned a few pages and added a new heading.

_About Me:_

He tried to write down everything he could remember about himself.

_Single  
Consulting Detective  
Sober for nearly eleven years.  
Lost last ten years of memory  
In a car accident and suffering a traumatic brain injury  
Anxiety in new situations  
My Mind Palace is in shambles  
I get headaches when I think too hard_

He looked up from his writing when John cleared his throat. _How long have I been working in my notebook?_ John looked like he was in pain as he shifted his feet. "One more…person you need to meet today. She's on her way."

"Is it…" Sherlock trailed off, trying to think of the name Lestrade mentioned earlier. "Molly? Hoop…Molly Hooper?"

"Yeah. She should be here in a few minutes."

Suddenly, Sherlock remembered what Mycroft had told him earlier in the car. He wasn't sure why that conversation was coming to mind so readily when hardly anything else stuck. "Did you know," Sherlock began, toying with the pen in his hands, "Mycroft she's my girlfriend! Can you believe that? Even though I've lost my mind, I know I wouldn't have a girlfriend."

"Yeah…"

"Mummy and Dad tried to tell me I wasn't a bastard, I've…observed that I wasn't that good of a person before the accident. And no woman in their right mind would fall in love with a bastard, right?"

Sherlock returned to his notebook, adding a few more notes to his "About Me" section. He heard John mumbled something, but he wasn't paying close attention to him.

Only a few minutes later, Sherlock was once again brought out of his work by little Scarlett Watson. "Night-night, 'lock!" She climbed onto his lap to kiss his cheek and hug him. "Glad you're not sick no more." Before he could comment, she was pulled from his lap by Mary.

"It's bath and bedtime!"

When silence settled over the house, other than Scarlett's soft giggles floating down the stairs, Sherlock stood from his chair and carefully walked towards the kitchen, where he could hear John making tea. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"Well, have biscuits anyway. And you don't have to creep around here. You're allowed to go wherever you want…within reason." John turned and flashed Sherlock a smile. Then he turned back to the tea. "Molly will be here any minute. Why don't you take those biscuits and sit in the living room?"

Without argument, Sherlock made his way back to where he came from with a plate of biscuits. He plopped down in the chair, balancing the plate on his knee. He opened up his notebook and began making notes under a new heading labeled, "Questions to Ask".

At the sound of soft knocks on the door, Sherlock looked up. He could hear John moving to answer it, and he found the silence in the flat unnerving. No longer was Scarlett giggling in the bath, which he assumed meant Mary was tucking her in for the night, probably reading or singing to her. He wasn't sure if Mary or John sang or played musical instruments, so he made a note in his notebook under his newest heading, just to ensure that he would remember to ask someday.

When neither John nor the visitor entered the living room, Sherlock jumped to his feet. He couldn't sit still anymore. This was unlike any of the encounters he had that day and he was wondering what was taking so long for them to greet him. _Maybe she's helping with the tea?_ He ruffled his hair and started a slow circuit around the room.

He halted when he heard a choked breath. He turned towards the door and felt his knees buckle.

A woman who was very petite and with long brown hair plaited down her back stood before him. Her mouth was small and her lips were turned down in a frown. Her eyes were wide and brown and he noticed a slight tremor in her chin, as if she was trying not to cry.

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth for a few moments; he didn't know what to say to this very beautiful woman who was obviously emotional over his presence.

After standing in silence of several long seconds, the woman took a deep breath through her nose and then smiled. It was as if whatever was bothering her about him was pushed to the side. Sherlock felt as if he was punched in the gut and he had to stop himself from gasping aloud. He looked behind Molly, desperately wanting John to be in the room with him, but he wasn't. He broke out in a cold sweat and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. "I'm Molly Hooper," she said softly.

"S-Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock offered, staring at her for a moment before looking down at his shoes.

"I'm really happy you're doing better." Sherlock nodded his head, unable to raise his gaze. "I was really worried about you when you were in the hospital. I wish I was allowed to visit at least once."

"T-that would have been—Mycroft said no visitors at the hospital."

"I know." Molly closed the distance between them, and Sherlock sucked in a breath, holding completely still. He felt her hand, warm and soft, against his cheek, and he tried to raise his eyes to meet hers but he couldn't; all he managed to do was glare at the floor. He was overwhelmed with this complete feeling of guilt and betrayal for not remembering someone like her; it was obvious that they were close friends at one point or another. Her reaction was somewhat similar to John's reaction from that morning.

He gasped when she dropped her hand and took several steps backwards. "S-sorry! I forgot you don't like to be touched!" Sherlock wanted to stop her, to tell her that he accepted a handshake from John and hugs from Greg and Mary, but he couldn't seem to get his mouth and brain to cooperate.

They stood in awkward silence for only a few seconds before Sherlock heard the familiar sound of his brother's footsteps on the hardwood floor. Not even waiting for his brother to properly appear in the room, he picked up his notebook and pen that was forgotten on the chair and clutched it to his chest as if he was using it as a shield.

"Nice to meet you Mandy," he managed to say, before he ran out of the room, dashing past his brother who was standing in the kitchen with John. He barely got out a goodbye before he was standing outside on the pavement gasping for breath.

He left the door open to the Watson's home, and he flinched when he heard the sounds of choked sobs coming from within. It was too late, he realized, to go back inside and say goodbye properly. Instead, he climbed into the car Mycroft arrived in and tried to act aloof as his brother eventually slid into the car and closed the door behind him.

It wasn't until much later in the evening when Sherlock was alone in his bedroom, consulting his notebook that he realized to his horror that he didn't even call her by her right name before his hasty retreat.

Something told him that that was something the "Old Sherlock" would do; the one who frequented drug dens and was high most of the time. He tossed his notebook to the side and pulled his duvet over his head, wishing the tightening of his chest and the pain pounding his head would just go away.

* * *

A/N: This chapter was very difficult to write. It happened in the midst of my severe writers block, and yesterday was the first time I actually looked at it in weeks. It's not even that bad, in my opinion! Thank you for waiting, reading, and reviewing! :)

-Janet


	5. Teaching Mathematics Again

A Beautiful Mind

Summary: Amnesia is always romanticized in Hollywood, but there's nothing romantic about losing your memory after a traumatic brain injury. Sherlock Holmes can't remember much from the last decade, but he's willing to spend the rest of his life committing the people he once knew into his memory.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

All Chapter Titles have been inspired by the film score from A Beautiful Mind.

Chapter Five: Teaching Mathematics Again

* * *

"Now Mr. Holmes, remember what I suggested last week? You should spend time with your friends because you need to get to know them again. You've been out of the hospital for two weeks now, and you have only met with your friends once. I encourage you to "hang out" with them. Next week, if you do as I ask, we'll talk about you moving out of your brother's home and back to your flat on Baker Street."

Sherlock sat rigid on the sofa in his therapist's office, one hand clutching his chest. During this session, they talked in-depth about the anxiety he was constantly feeling whenever he stepped out of his bedroom, and talking about it made Sherlock feel only a bit better. According to his rather large medical file, he had never had issues with anxiety before, but his neurologist thought that this was a development from his brain injury, and if he regained his memories after his brain was completely healed, the anxiety might go away.

"Do you understand, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes."

"Great! Same time next week," she said with a smile on her face. Sherlock nodded his head and stood up. She followed him from her rather large office and to the door, stopping to talk to the receptionist with Sherlock. He confirmed his appointment for the following week, and with a wave goodbye to the two women, he stepped out of the office and walked straight to the sleek black car waiting for him.

He climbed into the back without a word and removed his phone from his Belstaff pocket. He was surprised when two weeks prior, Mycroft had given him several suits and this large coat. When he wore the clothing, it was very comfortable, which was a surprise because he felt at home in his jeans and jumpers and didn't realize he was missing his other clothing.

He toyed with his phone for a moment. Along with the clothes, Mycroft had given him a mobile phone, in case he needed to contact him or anyone else since he returned to work. After a few seconds, he opened his contacts and scrolled until he reached John Watson.

He was irritated that his hands were trembling as he started a text message. _'Do you have plans this evening? Would you like to have dinner?'_ He hesitated for a moment, his brow furrowing. He added his initials at the end of the text, in case this was a different number than the one John had before his accident.

He didn't get a response from his friend until he returned to his brother's home. He was hanging up his coat and walking to the kitchen to make tea when his phone buzzed. _'I'm free. Want me to text anyone else?'_

Even though the idea of trying to talk to more than one person at a time made him sick, he decided to listen to his doctor's suggestions about "hanging out" with his friends. _'You can text everyone.—SH'_

The prospect of actually leaving Mycroft's home to eat a meal and visit his friends filled Sherlock with such dread that he abandoned his attempts of tea making and went straight to his bedroom. He closed the door softly behind him and crawled into bed, laying on his back and digging out his notebook from beneath his pillow.

He studied his carefully taken notes until he fell asleep, his notebook resting on his chest.

* * *

Sherlock squeezed his fists tightly and tried to school his features as he stared out the window. For the first time since he moved in with Mycroft, his brother was actually leaving for business, some kind of diplomatic event in Finland that required his attendance for four days.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he was ready to be completely alone inside Mycroft's huge home, and he knew he was going to struggle to fulfill his therapist's expectations of "hanging out" with his friends without his brother's guidance.

"It'll only be four days, Sherlock."

"I know."

"You can ask John or Gregory to stay with you for the four days."

"I'm not an invalid," Sherlock snapped, clenching his fists tighter. "I don't need a minder!"

Mycroft sighed and crossed his legs, but didn't say anything else. After a moment, Sherlock looked away from the window. "Apologies," he whispered. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling his curls.

"You're forgiven."

Before Mycroft could say anything else, the black car pulled to a stop in front of Angelo's. For half a second, Sherlock hesitated, and then he opened the door. "I will see you in four days, Mickey."

"Try and have a good time, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded his head once and then stepped out of the black car. He stood uncertainly on the pavement, aware that his brother was watching him. He folded down the collar of his coat and then made his way to the restaurant that John insisted Sherlock would love.

The second Sherlock stepped inside, he was immediately in the arms of an older man he did not recognize. He was suddenly being kissed on the cheeks, patted on the head, and his coat was being pulled off of him all at the same time. He tried slapping away the hands, the air suddenly feeling thick and heavy, his chest heaving as he struggled to inhale, and then he heard John Watson say,

"Angelo! What did I _just_ explain to you?"

"That's right, Doctor Watson! Sorry Sherlock! I forgot you…forgot!"

Sherlock tried to smile, but he felt a bit sick to his stomach. He felt a hand on his upper arm directing him to the back of the cozy Italian restaurant. John led him to a large round table, with people sitting around it. He managed to smile politely at the people he immediately recognized, Mary and Scarlett Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson—

"Hudders!" he gasped, and the older woman stood to her feet, pressing her hands to her mouth. Obviously, she was a lot older than he remembered, especially as she limped a bit to him, but he still accepted her embrace as willingly as he accepted every other offering of affection since he got out of the hospital.

"Oh Sherlock," she breathed, kissing his cheek and patting the top of his head. "It's so good to see you. I've been worried about you, and I wasn't sure if you would remember me."

Mrs. Hudson was the first person he recognized right off the bat, other than his parents and Mycroft. It was a welcome feeling, and Sherlock relished in the warmth that the older woman offered him. After a few moments, he pulled away from her embrace, smiling at her fondly. He had always liked this woman, and their relationship must have strengthened over the years since he first met her.

"Now have a seat, Sherlock. You're only skin and bones."

Everyone at the table laughed, and Sherlock felt a blush on his cheeks. He looked around the table, trying to see where he was supposed to sit, and his stomach dropped when he realized the only empty seat was between Molly Hooper and John Watson.

Molly Hooper was staring at the table, fiddling with a fork. Sherlock swallowed thickly, his heart thudding in his chest. All he could think about was running out on her the first and last time he saw her, and calling her the wrong name. With abject terror, he moved around the table, carefully taking off his coat and placing it on the back of his chair. Then he slid into the seat and immediately picked up the water glass, feeling extremely parched.

After gulping down his water and snatching John's cup to drink from, he realized everyone's eyes were on him. The anxiety he felt at first texting John was returning full force. He shoved his trembling left hand out of sight, clutching his knee tightly as everyone began talking to him at once. He heard someone, possibly John, say that they already ordered for him. Then he thought he heard someone ask him about the Work (_what is the Work?_) but that was quickly drowned out by the sound of Scarlett saying something in excitement and knocking over a water glass.

While most of the table was distracted with cleaning up the spilt water, Sherlock wanted to get up from the table and go for a walk, preferably back to Mycroft's and to his bedroom. His therapist was absolutely wrong about suggesting he "hang out" with his friends.

Suddenly, he felt a cool hand encircle his left wrist. He turned slowly to look at Molly as she smiled at him, her cool fingers soothing his overheated skin. "Take a deep breath," she whispered, and somehow Sherlock managed to do so, the air not quite feeling like smog. "Everyone is just excited to see you. Give them a few minutes, and they'll settle down." Her thumb stroked his wrist soothingly. "I know all the talking is overwhelming, but it'll calm down soon."

Sherlock managed to nod his head, already feeling a bit calmer as he focused on the soft spoken woman beside him. He could feel John's eyes on him, and he assumed that his best friend heard what Molly said, but he ignored him in favor of taking slow and even breaths until his anxiety diminished.

For the rest of the evening, Molly kept her hand wrapped around his wrist, soothingly.

* * *

Two days after the rather stressful but successful dinner with his friends, he received a text from Greg Lestrade while he was eating his cereal, requesting lunch. Sherlock responded promptly before finishing his breakfast and jumping into the shower. Afterwards, he sat down in Mycroft's study with his notebook, reviewing the information he had on Greg. Even though he just had dinner with him two days ago, a lot of the conversation revolved around him and he didn't gather much new data about his peers.

He did learn that Scarlett did not like peas and would spit them out any time her mother or father tried to feed them to her. Surprisingly, the sight made him laugh heartily. Scarlett had definitely grown on him during their brief interactions.

He already had a series of questions to ask Greg, like whether he had children or not, if he was married or in a long term relationship with someone, what working with him was like, and whether or not he got along with said wife/husband/partner.

When it was time for him to leave, he exchanged his dressing gown for his long coat, double checked to make sure he had keys, his wallet, and money, and then he stepped outside. Mycroft insisted that he use his car service, so he didn't have to wait for or hail a cab. Instead, he climbed into the back of the black car, gave his driver the address to the pub he was meeting Lestrade, and fiddled with his notebook nervously for the rest of the ride.

He was certain that he would hate the pub, but he did say he would make the attempt to go to one, and with it only being one friend instead of all his friends, the situation should be less stressful, in theory.

When the car stopped, Sherlock informed the driver that he would be taking a cab back to his brother's home, so he wouldn't have to wait for him. Then he got out and walked into the pub.

It was easy for him to spot Greg in a booth in a corner of the pub, far away from the television and bar. It was quieter in this part of the establishment, which Sherlock was thankful for. He smiled at him tightly and crossed the room, removing his leather gloves and sliding into his seat.

"Afternoon," Greg said.

"Afternoon," Sherlock responded, flipping open his notebook.

"Got questions for me?"

"Just a few, if that's alright." He hesitated for a moment before picking up his pen and looking up at Greg.

Sherlock was surprised by how bright Greg's smile was, the grin warming him and setting him at ease. "It's alright with me."

Before Sherlock could ask his first question, a woman approached the table, asking them for their drink and food orders. Sherlock wasn't particularly hungry, so he just ordered chips and water, while Greg ordered fish and chips, and water.

"I thought you would be having a beer," Sherlock said, the moment the woman walked away. "My medication doesn't allow me to drink alcohol, but that doesn't mean you have to abstain as well."

"One," Greg began, ticking off on his fingers, "I drove here, so I have to be entirely sober to get behind the wheel. Two, I'm on the clock. Three, in case we have to make a hasty retreat, I would prefer to have my wits about me."

"A hasty retreat?" Sherlock looked around the mostly empty pub. "Are you expecting trouble?"

"No, but you never know nowadays." Greg took a sip of his water and then pointed at Sherlock's open notebook. "Ask away, Sherlock."

"Right." Sherlock easily began asking his questions and diligently writing down Greg's responses. He was surprised to learn that he didn't have children and was recently divorced (nearly five years beforehand). Greg seemed like the kind of man to have children by now, but Sherlock didn't feel comfortable asking why he didn't have children (something in the back of his mind told him that might be insensitive).

Sherlock found it easy to continue chatting while he munched on his chips, wiping the grease on a napkin in his lap. Greg was very kind and listened very well, so Sherlock felt more comfortable explaining his newfound anxiety in social situations. He knew he had never been diagnosed with anything and his neurologist believed it was symptoms from his traumatic brain injury, but he wasn't surprised to learn that he never did well in large groups; Greg explained John's birthday party where he made a video instead of showing up, and a few of the parties they had attended or thrown and Sherlock unusual behavior.

It was easy to see that he always had a bit of anxiety, but it had grown exponentially since the accident.

Towards the end of lunch, Greg received a text. "It's work." Sherlock watched as Greg hesitated a moment before cocking his head to the side. "Do you have anything going on today?"

"No."

"You should come with me; see how you handle the Work."

"Which reminds me," Sherlock said, standing up and putting his coat on. He dropped a few bills on the table to cover his lunch. "What is the Work?"

Greg laughed and led the way out of the pub. "I'll explain in the car."

* * *

"I don't think dead bodies alarm me," Sherlock said, pausing outside the double doors. "I'm a graduate chemist after all, I'm very knowledgeable."

"Great! If you feel uneasy though, you don't have to say anything. You can step back or leave the room, we won't mind."

Sherlock was left to wonder who the "we" was in this situation, whether Greg meant the dead victim or another person in the morgue. Regardless, he followed Greg into the room, nearly freezing at the sight of Molly Hooper standing with goggles protecting her eyes and a bone saw in her hand. She looked up at the sound of the doors closing and smiled at Greg and Sherlock, waving them over.

Once again, Sherlock suddenly felt parched. He tried licking his lips, but that didn't seem to help. A blush crept up his neck and soon covered his cheeks. His palms began to sweat as he closed the distance between himself and Molly, and he seemed to forget the English language.

Evidently, he wasn't going to have any trouble not saying anything.

He heard Greg say that they were just testing out his ability to be in the room as a dead body and to not expect much talk from him, which he was grateful.

He watched and listened as Molly pointed at various things about the body, saying a few things didn't add up here and there. Greg listened intently, and soon the two began bouncing ideas off of each other, leaving Sherlock in the back of the morgue, feeling a bit left out.

_I used to do this for a living. I can do it now._ He took a hesitant step forward, and Molly turned to him. "Something wrong, Sherlock?"

"Uhhh, no. No, no. Nothing. No." He coughed into his hand and hoped that the blood boiling beneath his skin and his pounding pulse went unnoticed.

Both Greg and Molly stared at him for several long seconds, and then Greg, either taking pity on Sherlock or wanting to get back to work, asked Molly another question about the body. Once she was sufficiently engaged in the conversation again, Sherlock returned his attention to the dead body.

The fingernails were a bit off colored. They were yellow, but according to Molly's brief review of the body, his liver was in working order. He peered closer at the hand and noticed a bit of yellow paint on his thumb nail.

Except it wasn't paint. It was nail varnish.

"He was poisoned," Sherlock said, pausing to clear his throat. Molly and Greg stared at him, and Sherlock pointed to the hand. "His fingernails were recently painted yellow, and then the varnish was removed from all the fingers except the thumb. If you look closely, you can see a pinprick beneath the nail. Take a sample of the varnish, and you'll find traces of the poison. Then you should check his wife's alibi again and find out when she took out an insurance policy on her husband."

He took a heaving breath at the end of his rather brazen guesses and then took a step back from the body.

Molly and Greg were staring at him, both of their mouths agape. "Did I do something wrong? I apologize, I know forensic pathology is not my area but—"

"You're brilliant!" Molly said, beaming at him proudly before ripping off her gloves and dashing to the sink to wash her hands.

"Haven't heard a deduction in weeks! Nice to hear one that good!"

"Deduction?"

"Remember the Work? It's what you do! Does any of this feel familiar to you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I just saw and put things together in my head. Actually," he took a few stumbling steps backwards until he was leaning against the freezers. "Thinking like that actually hurt my head. I need to sit."

"Right." Greg moved beside him, gripping him firmly by the elbow. "Molly, can we commandeer your office for a bit?"

"Of course. I have a few bottles of water in there. Take whatever you need."

As Greg led Sherlock out of the morgue, already on the phone with John, Sherlock couldn't help but think about the way Molly smiled at him and told him he was brilliant.

It almost made the pounding in his skull less painful.

Almost.

* * *

A/N: Another update, yay! Thank you for reading, as always! :)


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